Blood in the Land of Flowers
by QuoteMyFoot
Summary: Rosanne cannot resist Walhart's advance. That doesn't stop some of them from trying. Cherche bears witness to it all. Pre-canon. Twoshot. Violence and minor character death.
1. One

_At first, there was no call to be uneasy. Valm and Trelec had had territorial disputes stretching back a century. When the new Prince Walhart annexed a huge chunk of land at the border, the only nations concerned were Trelec's southern allies, even though that Prince had earned his crown by military coup._

 _Perhaps, Cherche thought, that is what should have told us more trouble was to come._

 _Because Valm's heir had been the previous ruler's granddaughter, only eight years old – if Walhart had installed himself as regent, it would not have been questioned. He would have had an air of legitimacy. The kind of man who cannot settle for being ruler in fact; who must be ruler in name… there, indeed, is ambition to fear._

 _Perhaps Virion had held an inkling of suspicion. But he had hidden it away from her, behind smiles and lyrical verses about the wildflowers of Minerva's home in Wyvern Valley._

 _Cherche wondered – if Virion had told her, would she have put more effort into his forays into diplomacy; would she have drilled the duchy's guard better; would she have given more serious thought to her plans for a new squad of wyvern riders…_

 _What if, what if, what if…_

* * *

With four more nations in his ever-increasing territory, King Walhart (his new title) has certainly made the larger nations of Valm sit up and take notice.

Duke Virion is away for weeks at a diplomatic meeting. Rosanne is by no means the largest nation, nor the most prosperous, being mostly mountainous, but they are strong. With an alliance with one of their neighbours, surely King Walhart will be hesitant to take his conquest further east.

Cherche repeats this to herself and cannot find fault in it. But Virion's smiles have become fragile as of late, and his verses, though flawlessly performed as ever, have taken a melancholy turn. Surely her lord cannot truly think Walhart means to come all the way to conquer Rosanne? He would only meet fierce resistance and for little gain.

Whilst the Duke is gone, she manages his household. Finances and the military have official titles in the Privy Council, but Virion's spies answer only to Cherche in his absence. She decodes letters about supply lines and rebellions, not seeing their relevance.

Duke Virion returns in a low mood, and the spies' reports which Cherche has dutifully collated only bring him lower. He stands over the enormous map of Valm which he had commissioned several months ago, possibly the most accurate one in existence, adding markers of the places his spies have brought to his attention.

"Ah, my dear, do you not see? Walhart is feared for his mounted mages, swift and deadly; and yet, they are of Trelec originally, are they not? How soon he turns the loyal forces of a long-standing enemy to his own advantage!" Virion traces a line with his finger from tiny Valm itself; the long, winding route that Walhart's supplies of iron must trace through his conquered territories up to his current campaign. "And here! Such a long route, the importance of the supply! And yet, so few men to guard it."

Cherche thought it was an opportunity ripe for sabotage. But surely such a thing had occurred to him already. "You don't think it's because he's lacking in men?" she hazards.

"Alas, no. I fear it is because he does not need them." Virion gestures to the small patch of the map which now belongs to Walhart. "This man, he is not even royalty, he has held these places for scarce a year! And yet my spies report no trouble amongst the populace, few rebellions… his charisma is remarkable. Even if one were to attempt to sabotage the supply, the chance of getting there undetected is miniscule if his people are so dedicated to him. They will not turn a blind eye to enemy nations on their soil, and the shorter mountain route is impassable until the spring, assuming he does not take Hallan before then to secure himself against such endeavours."

Cherche read about one of those rebellions. Even the limitations of the encryption hadn't been able to conceal the spy's dismay at how strikingly unsuccessful it had been: a former noble house of Walhart's then-newest conquest tried to organise a revolt, but were struck down by their own vassals. A platoon of Walhart's army had arrived a day later to hear of the house's execution and accept dozens of new recruits from amongst their former vassals and the town they resided in.

Whilst she knows that not every vassal shares as close and casual a friendship as she does with Duke Virion, the thought of someone in _her_ position betraying their lord or lady in such a manner turns her stomach. But Cherche begins to understand what Virion is driving at. "He already holds the loyalty of the general populace? I have heard that the western coast has been plagued by misrule and corruption. I suppose it is not so surprising they could be won over by a man as unrelenting and seemingly upfront as Walhart." Virion seems to barely hear her, staring at the map with an intense expression. Cherche puts a hand to his shoulder. "But you have been a good ruler. The people of Rosanne love you – Yen'fay, too, is well loved by the people of Chon'sin. Walhart would not find our lands easy to conquer _or_ to hold."

She means it to be comforting. She expects Virion to smile. Instead, Cherche sees him withdraw into himself and shut her out.

"Yes," he says, very softly.

After the incompetence of Virion's father, Duke Verona, Virion had been a blessing to a Rosanne still trying to recover after a war for their independence - fierce in battle, wise in strategy, educated in every aspect of government, who worked hard for his country but knew how to delegate and not drive himself into useless exhaustion. Even his insistence on flirting with every woman he meets and patronising every theatre in the city, much as Cherche disapproves, are quirks that make him relatable and loved by the Rosannese people.

Cherche withdraws her hand, but smiles. Whatever the reasons for Virion's gloom, she believes he can find the answer.

* * *

For weeks afterwards, Virion's spare time is spent either poring over the large map of Valm – carefully noting all of Walhart's advancements – or the smaller map of Rosanne, showing their lands in exquisite detail. She sees him enact out battles across the parchment, again and again.

Cherche shakes her head and asks Minerva to drop the Duke into a lake when he begins to smell too strongly. He gets the message.

Her own faith in Rosanne's new alliances with their neighbours remains strong, and she takes faith in the knowledge that Chon'sin's warriors are already gearing up to fight _Emperor_ Walhart's advancing troops. Still, Cherche does what she can to ease Virion's load. She gives out instructions not only for new recruitment and training of militias, but also that they be trained in new drills – stranded in enemy territory; limited supplies; how to protect civilians whilst under fire; limited spy work for those who show a knack. If Walhart comes as Virion believes, if he manages to overcome their allies, they'll make him pay for every inch of Rosanne's lands, again and again.

It is unpleasant work. Cherche retreats to mending clothes in the evenings, enjoying the gratitude of the new recruits and some unremarkable (but at least, unlike Virion, _earnest_ ) attempts at flirtation, trying to settle the unease in her stomach that she may be responsible for training many of them only for a violent end.

 _But,_ she tells herself repeatedly, _it shouldn't come to that. It_ _ **won't**_ _come to that._

* * *

When Yen'fay gives his country up to Walhart without so much as a sword being sharpened, Cherche begins to see just how inexorable Walhart's advance truly is. Even some of Virion's hand picked spies have defected.

Now the people of Chon'sin, who Cherche hoped to fight alongside – now they will turn against Rosanne instead. The largest and richest two nations still stand alongside them, as well as the remote northern territories. By numbers alone, the battle is not unwinnable. But by numbers alone, it should never have come to this. She watches soldiers run through drills with the grim faces of people preparing to make their deaths count for as much as possible, her fists clenched hard enough to ache.

Minerva brings Cherche flowers from her hometown to cheer her up, along with a letter from Cherche's parents, gently chiding her for the sheep Minerva ate. Unfortunately, Cherche does not think her lecture about taking from others without permission really sinks in through her tears.

She has stood at Virion's shoulder enough to know how this goes. Walhart's tactician will undermine their allies – larger, more weaknesses to exploit – from within, and then Walhart will take Rosanne before they can stabilise enough to reinforce her.

The mountainous terrain will be to their advantage. Walhart has not yet incorporated many wyvern riders into his army, so they will have the skies, too. Every village has a larger town to retreat to and set up a defence, where they will force him into a siege for as long as possible. If a siege is unworkable, they will scatter into the countryside to harass Walhart's army as they go. If crops cannot be kept for their own use, they will be burned. If cattle cannot be defended, they will be slaughtered. Every bit they bleed from Walhart now gives their allies, and what little opposition the Resistance in Chon'sin can manage, more time; it gives Rosanne a greater chance of being free again.

She has stood at Virion's shoulder enough to see his hands fisted in his hair, despairing. A pyrrhic victory for Walhart it might be. For much of Rosanne, though, it will mean destruction. Walhart isn't kind to those who oppose him.

And yet, what can she say? If she told them to stand down, they would ignore her. Her militia initiative took off more than she intended, retired soldiers sending detailed strategies, voluntarily coordinating to find the most likely water sources for Walhart's army, which wells can they poison without harming the towns which are yet to be taken, securing the roads for refugees… There is a grim kind of cheerfulness to it, determination, but Cherche just wants to cry.

"We cannot win this war without making sacrifices," Virion says, examining one of his figurine soldiers. He puts it down gently over the 'a' in Rosanne. "A great many sacrifices."

He is not the man he once was, Duke Virion. He still flirts with the maids and blows kisses in public, sponsors theatrical productions that he can no longer attend, does poetry readings at the close of Privy Council meetings – but despite this façade, Cherche can see how much everything weighs on him. He has lost weight; the maids no longer even prepare his breakfast for the number of times it has returned untouched. Cherche goes to bed in her own rooms with him studying the maps as though they might still hold a miracle, and wakes with the sun to find Virion has already been awake for hours, if he even went to bed at all.

She was watching Virion during his archery practise when a particularly enthusiastic recruit burst in, much to the consternation of the guards. The young boy was able to reassure his lord several times that he and his elder sister were going to do their part for Rosanne and had no doubt that Duke Virion would be able to see them through these dark times – "If not for us, then for our younger siblings," the boy said, not being entirely naïve. He was eventually shown out after a stern talking to, whilst Virion agreed readily with the Captain of the Guard's suggestion that m'lord should no longer be out unsupervised. Virion retired early from archery practise and returned to his rooms to strategise. Cherche heard him weeping from the other side of the door. He would not open it when she knocked.

It feels a little like Rosanne is a boat, poised on the edge of a waterfall, about to plunge into the depths below.

Cherche mends shirts, laughs at poor jokes, bakes treats as best she can with their rationed supplies, and tries not to dwell on how deep down she, too, hoped Virion could somehow make it all worthwhile.

She takes Minerva for a flight to Rosanne's highest peak, enjoying the crisp, sharp mountain air, and how the snow gradually gives way to patches of colourful wildflowers in the valley below.

It may be the last time she ever sees Rosanne like this.

* * *

A few days later, Cherche wakes at her usual time. She finds Virion's study empty. It's unusual for recent times, but not completely out of character. Perhaps, at this point, he finds it more beneficial to practice his archery, regardless of what the Captain of the Guard said.

Only he isn't at the archery range either. He isn't pestering the maids. He isn't making a public appearance for the sake of morale. He isn't checking up with his agents. In desperation, Cherche checks the capital's theatres, even though Virion hasn't attended a performance in over a year.

By then she's not the only one looking for Virion. Panic spreads like a contagion. A kidnapping for ransom? An assassination?

At first, Cherche didn't believe it when rumours started to come in that the Duke had been seen crossing the border. There are reports from the large port town ten miles up the coast that he had been looking for passage to Archanea. She refuses to believe it, that after _everything_ he gave Rosanne, every sleepless night and all the stress and anguish, that he would simply leave like—like some kind of _coward_. He's not, he's Virion, he's an annoying flirt and talks too much in verse but he wouldn't leave them—

But not everyone knows the Duke as well as Cherche and Minerva. What most other people have seen of him is the carefree face he put on to cover for his stress. The rumours must be fake, or they found a lookalike and let him be spotted; maybe _this_ is the ploy Walhart's tactician is going for, to undermine Rosanne's faith in its leader.

By the end of the day, even Cherche is starting to have doubts. If it was a lookalike they found to undermine morale, then Virion is probably dead; but Minerva couldn't find the scent of his blood anywhere, and surely they would have wanted to kill him quickly and hide the body, before he could escape or draw attention somehow.

Maybe he really did...?

Cherche retreats to her rooms as early as she is able, exhausted from trying to keep things running smoothly in the Duke's absence. In Virion's absence. She feels disappointed with herself for believing that Virion really would run away, but she can't get rid of that niggling doubt. Cherche would be lying if she said she hadn't had thoughts of escaping with Minerva – but only passing daydreams. She has too many responsibilities here to ever seriously consider it. _So does the Duke_ , she tells herself firmly.

She starts when she sees the letter on her desk, realising belatedly that she had never sat down at it, as is her habit, after the events of this morning. Of course she recognises Virion's handwriting immediately.

Her first thought is to burn it. This confirms her worst fears. That coward. That scum. How dare he—

She rips it open in a fury instead, tearing the paper, but leaving it just legible;

 _My dearest Cherche,_

 _You must know I could never allow our people to die for me. I can only offer my most sincere apologies that it has come to this, and I have to inform you in such a manner…_

Virion went on to describe how he, like Cherche, had foreseen Rosanne's certain destruction – whether at Walhart's hands, or by their own. How Cherche had told him that the backbone of their resistance was their faith in Virion. How the only answer, therefore, was to undermine it by any means necessary.

He asked for Cherche to remain in Rosanne to ensure the country was stable, and then to join him in Archanea with her best appraisal of the situation.

 _I can only apologise and beg your forgiveness for the unfortunate shadow this will cast over your own character as my closest vassal. Your loyalty, friendship, and skill certainly deserves a far greater reward._

 _I also must ask you to look after Rosanne as best as you are able whilst I am gone. I would entrust her to no one else. Fear not, my dear, for Rosanne will still be beautiful! One day, she will again be beautiful and free._

 _Affectionately yours, for the last time,_

 _Duke Virion of Rosanne_

Cherche reads the letter again and again in a state of numbness. She, indeed, was the one who had tried to reassure Virion by telling him of the loyalty and faith of his people. How could she have missed that it was not a reassurance at all, but a burden? Is she the reason he chose this path?

A slow, burning feeling of shame begins to creep over her, for even doubting Virion for a moment. She should have realised from the start. Of course the Duke has only wanted the best for his people, from the very beginning. She saw, herself, today, how quickly the rumours spread through the capital and morale crumbled away – how the Privy Council has turned to arguing over whether it would be better to mount a token resistance to Walhart, allowing the higher levels of government to escape, or whether they should surrender unconditionally and offer him their loyalty.

Virion has always had a knack for understanding the minds of men, a talent which Cherche did not share. Still, she feels she has learnt a little from her time at his side. Tomorrow she will seek out what remains of his spy network and have them spread rumours about the Council's plan to buy time for their own escape. Against the risk a violent mob turning against them, they will be forced to deny the rumours and offer Walhart unconditional surrender.

If Virion has thrown away everything – his reputation, his lands, the love and friendship of his people; in short, _everything he is_ – in order to spare Rosanne, Cherche cannot allow the Privy Council to spend the lives of Rosanne's people so selfishly.

She crumples the letter in her shaking hands. It feels like so little. 'One day, she will again be beautiful and free.'

 _But what of you, Virion?_ Cherche thinks. _What will you be?_

* * *

Of course, loyalty to the Duke was not the only reason the people of Rosanne were prepared to fight, particularly in the borderlands, where he is little known. This is still their home, a land of craggy rocks and beautiful, but hardy, wildflowers; a people proud of their strength and independence. Despite Cherche's best efforts, the militia groups at the border declare their intent to ignore the Privy Council's surrender and fight Walhart anyway. The Privy Council shakes their heads, saying they can do little against such folly.

Cherche is the one who receives the letters from those retired soldiers, the ones she had put in charge of the militia in the first place. She is the one to whom they declare their intent, almost apologetically, to die free rather than live under Walhart's heel. These are the veterans of Rosanne's last war, a fight for their independence. It was a war they won despite Virion's ineffectual father, not because of him. Virion's retreat and seeming cowardice mean as little to them as Duke Verona's handwringing and political blunders did forty years ago. Proud soldiers of Rosanne, dedicated, still writing to 'Lady Cherche' as though she is owed their respect. But old.

It will be a slaughter.

These half a dozen letters are all that remain of Rosanne's strong determination to resist, a fire that Cherche herself stoked and built. It is, perhaps, self-centred to feel responsible for their refusal to yield, to see it as the remnants of her own grand plans for resistance; to feel as though every plan she ever gave approval to has now come back to haunt her, a betrayal of Virion's sacrifice and the duty he left her.

Only two platoons of wyvern riders remain in the capital. Desertion was rife after Virion left, and the Privy Council were not very invested in maintaining an effective army. These two, though, are Cherche's creation. They were supposed to be better integrated into the command structure of the main army, but…

Well, it serves her purposes well enough now.

She smiles at them pleasantly. "Everyone, we have a mission."

"What's the point?" somebody mutters. There are murmurs of agreement.

Minerva silences them with a roar. "The _point,"_ Cherche says, sharply, "is the same as it's always been. To protect the people of Rosanne."

No one will quite meet her eyes. They shuffle their feet in silence. Whether they are ashamed or merely frightened, Cherche doesn't know.

But when Cherche asks if anyone has reason to be excused from the mission, no one says a thing.

* * *

Mayor Jean was a decorated veteran in his time, leading several victories against the odds during Rosanne's campaign for independence. He retired from the army when he lost an arm from the elbow down, but he unfurls maps using his wooden replacement with a graceful flourish that reminds her of Virion himself.

"I appreciate ye coming, Lady Cherche," he says. "I admit, the retreat had been givin' me some grief."

Their defence, such as it is, has been cobbled together from whatever ancient war machines had not been taken apart for other purposes long ago, and whatever they could improvise from shepherds' and farmers' equipment. Cherche is sure the retreat is not the only thing that has been giving Jean grief.

Jean's second in command is his daughter, Belle. She's not a stranger to battle either, as evidenced by her milky white eye and the scar left by the weapon that blinded her. The scar looks familiar, and after a moment Cherche places her: Belle used to be in the Palace Guards. That certainly explains why she looks at Cherche with more caution than her father.

After the meeting, Belle tilts her head and Cherche follows her to the practise grounds, where even now a few men are practising with their weapons. None look to be under forty.

"Most of our folks're gone," Belle says, unprompted. Her voice is more refined than her father's, from her time in the capital, but there still remains the trace of the borderlands accent. "Against their wishes, some of them. I told my father I'd have his other hand off if he tried to make me leave with the rest."

Cherche says nothing.

"I would thank you for coming to his aid, regardless." Belle pauses. There is a heaviness to her words that shows the care they were chosen with. "But I have to ask: did you know the Duke was going?"

An open-ended question which Cherche can answer truthfully. A part of her wishes she could be more honest. "I did not."

"But you _know_?" Belle says, which startles Cherche. The scarred half of Belle's face creases into a smile. "My lady, I knew Duke Verona, too. Virion was not like him. Not in this."

Her heart is in her throat. Virion asked her not to tell anyone. Has she revealed him by coming all this way, just so she could appease her own conscience? It is too late to take the surrender back, but—

"Relax," Belle says. "I will not tell a soul." She looks away from Cherche, watching the men at practise again. "I came here in a fury, vowing to show the strength that Duke Virion had not. But when I was here, I understood. We aren't the mountains; we can not endure all things. My father seeks only an honourable end. He knew, better than I who had the Duke's ear, that the cost of holding Rosanne would be too high."

"He'll come back," Cherche finds herself saying. "Rosanne will be free again. It… it is just…"

It feels like making a confession. She's suddenly aware of a weight on her shoulders, pressing her down, and it isn't as though Belle's words have freed her from her burden—but for now, it feels a little lighter.

Belle nods slowly. "I thought he would… still, it is good to hear that my father's cause will not die with him." The edges of her eyes soften. It must be a strange feeling to grieve for one who still lives. "Why did you come, Lady Cherche? I'm sure Duke Virion is relying on you. You should not take risks like this."

She _is_ an important player in Virion's strategy, it's true. Logically speaking, Cherche should go to ground and wait to gather information on Walhart's occupation. But Cherche feels like Virion entrusted more to her than reconnaissance. He asked her to look over the spirit of Rosanne itself.

 _This_ is Rosanne. The mountains and wildflowers, yes, but also Mayor Jean, who needs assistance to even strap the shield to his arm. The younger peoples of the borderlands whom he had to chase away for their own good. His daughter, following the unspoken orders of a man who entrusted nothing to her.

"I came," Cherche says, "for the same reasons you stayed."

She cannot save every veteran of Rosanne. Probably, she cannot even save Mayor Jean.

But she can at least bear witness.

It talks over the next few days, they agree on the role Cherche's troops will play. One of the wyvern platoons is to cover the retreating civilians and their supplies, securing their route to the second-largest city in Rosanne. The other, the one Cherche leads, is to go into battle with Mayor Jean. They should meet Walhart on the field tomorrow.

Major Jean tries gently to convince her to lead the other platoon. Just as gently, Cherche refuses.

"Father," Belle eventually says during one of these talks, "it is very commendable that you wish to spare as many as possible, but at some point, you are going to look like a hypocrite for trying to turn people away from _your_ hopeless battle."

"The cheek of ye!" her father says. But he's also gone slightly red, and drops the matter after that.


	2. Two

The day of their battle with Walhart, there is a fierce, cold wind which takes all the warmth out of the weak sunshine. It is not unusual weather for Rosanne, shrugged off by most of them, and a few of the soldiers joke that maybe Walhart's army will be defeated by runny noses before they ever take the field.

Of course, no one actually believed the joke. Walhart and the Rosanne veterans have come too far to turn away from a fight now.

Cherche's breath catches in her throat when she sees Walhart's forces arrayed before them. They go on for an entire mile, perhaps more, in dark armour which seems to swallow whatever light touches them. Mayor Jean walks among the troops, as cheerful as he ever is, repeating a last few orders only for the sake of showing that he is unafraid.

The sight of him gives Cherche new courage, but still, it is hard _not_ to be afraid. Walhart hasn't fielded any of his flying units, which is to their advantage, but Cherche is sure that there must be hundreds of archers amongst the troops, not to mention the mounted mage knights for whom Walhart is truly feared. She remembers, long ago it seems now, how Virion remarked that he had won their loyalty quickly from Trelec.

And, of course, there is the man himself – Walhart, already being called 'The Conqueror'. He purposefully stands out, clad in red armour, noticeably larger than the men around him.

That may not mean he _truly_ is as imposing as he seems, Cherche reminds herself uneasily; Virion had often told her about how such tricks could be done with perspective. That was mainly at the theatrical productions which he insisted upon her seeing, but it could equally apply here.

It _could_.

Cherche breathes out slowly. She's leading the detachment of wyvern riders. They're crucial to Jean's battle plans. Their morale is a forced, artificially cheerful thing as it is. She can't be showing fear now.

Instead, she focuses on what advantages they do have. As the defenders, they were able to choose the field of battle. The bulk of their army is set up in a narrow mountain pass, rocky cliffs rising to either sides. They end like cliffs, too, to the open, hilly plains where Walhart has arrayed his troops. Virion told her that there was once an enormous lake here, known as the Inland Sea, but now the cliffs lookout onto a sea of plains. There are rockfall traps set up along the cliffside, hoping to crush Walhart's army beneath them. He surely must have guessed at this obvious tactic, so Mayor Jean has also set an archer or two at each trap, hoping to be able to snipe whatever troops Walharts sends to interfere with the traps. Archers, at least, they have aplenty; it would be nice to see more than the five mages who lent their talents to Mayor Jean. Still, he has found a way to maximise their use.

There is a ripple in Walhart's front lines, and the sea of black armour begins to advance.

"We're on the move!" Cherche calls to the defenders below.

There is a flurry of movement as they ready their weapons; spears, swords, and axes. Cherche loses track of the individual fighters as Minerva rises into the air, the rest of the wyverns following. Their first job is to locate Walhart's fire mages, dropping the small explosive parcels one of Jean's fire mages, Adalene, made. Cherche has no idea what they contain, but they're supposed to target any fire mages they can find or, failing that, drop them amongst the army indiscriminately, where a miscast or act of carelessness could be devastating.

The flight over Walhart's army also gives them time to survey his forces. "He brought siege engines," she hisses. It's not totally unexpected – until recently, Walhart must have expected a much longer campaign – but they had hoped he would avoid the hassle of bringing them. Those two catapults might be able to dislodge parts of the cliff face and bring it down on their troops. If his wind mages are powerful enough, they could even redirect their loads onto the defenders themselves. She marks them as a priority target.

But for now, they aren't within range to be a concern.

Fire mages are the most dangerous should anything go awry, so they are often marked out for the benefit of their own forces. Cherche and her group fly over Walhart's ranks of cavalry, at the front of the army, but she cannot see anything particularly distinctive about one group over another, and she fears they might make too tempting a target of themselves if they flew lower. They cannot afford losses so early into the battle.

Cursing softly to herself, Cherche rises again, signalling her soldiers to follow. "I can't locate the fire mages," she shouts over the wind, too high to be heard by Walhart's army. "Has anyone else had any luck?"

They shake their heads. Cherche sighs. "Then we must do what we can. Drop the explosives amongst the mage cavalry; if they're mixed with one another to confuse us, it will be additionally dangerous for them."

"Captain, what about the siege engines?"

Cherche pauses. Somehow blowing them up with explosives _would_ be easier than trying to sabotage them with throwing axes, or worse yet, dismounting to deal with it close at hand. "A good thought. I will keep some in reserve; everyone else, drop everything you have."

They nod and scatter across the front of Walhart's ranks. The number of cavalry is simply staggering. Cherche didn't know there were that many horses _in_ Valm, let alone that could be put to war.

Almost as soon as her deputy drops a packet of explosives, it explodes and blows a hole in Walhart's ranks. It is filled with worrying speed as the well-disciplined soldiers rearrange themselves to cover the gap. Walhart's numbers might as well be limitless, for all the damage they can do here.

She urges Minerva into a slow circle, observing the field. The cavalry aren't advancing at full pace and are still not within distance of the rockfall traps. Cherche waves a red flag, as the other riders join her in the air, which is their pre-agreed signal to split into two groups to hammer the mage cavalry.

"Rise and dive!" Cherche calls to Minerva.

She feels her stomach drop away from her as they plummet, but they've done this hundreds of times before and she tugs on Minerva's reins at exactly the right moment. Minerva's opens her wings and they crash into two riders and their mounts, crushing them beneath Minerva's bulk.

Cherche forces herself to ignore the screaming of the horses, using her axe to strike another soldier's leg before the group have time to rally. She can't tell if it was a killing blow, only see the blood flowing over his breeches.

"Rise!" Minerva beats her wings and launches into the air, knocking someone else off their horse. A crack of thunder sounds seemingly next to Cherche's ear, and there is a bright flash that leaves her blinking spots out of her eyes.

She can't hear herself ask Minerva if she is alright, but she can feel Minerva's answering rumble, content. The magic must have missed them by a wingbeat, but she isn't frightened. Cherche's heart flutters in her throat and she has to remind herself to breathe deeply, steadily. Minerva has taken to war much more readily than Cherche.

She does a quick headcount. One down from the other group. Cherche acknowledges this and forces herself to put it away. If she doesn't look any one of her fellow riders too closely, she won't know until after. Her ears have stopped ringing, but she can still hear the horse's screams.

Cherche waves the signal flag, and they fall on the enemy again.

The first of the rock fall traps go just as Cherche rises. She feels a shade of triumph, but then she sees the rocks roll wildly, _unnaturally,_ off course.

 _He sent the wind mages in first!_

One of their archers attempts to snipe the lead wind mage, but the arrow went astray before it got within a few feet of him. The magic chasing the air currents is so strong as to be visible, building, building—

 _They're going to send the rocks back on us._ Cherche thought about the archers positioned there to protect the traps. Too many.

"To me!" she shouts, gesturing. Only a handful of her riders hear over the wind, but the others in the group catch on and follow quickly.

Minerva lets out a cry of dismay at battling the fierce winds, but she was born to the skies. She flies _with_ the currents the mages are building, but down instead of up. There is a shout, and Cherche feels the heat of a fireball burst against Minerva's flanks. She winces, thinking uneasily of the explosives they're still carrying, but there was no time to think—Minerva snarls and keeps diving, brushing someone off their horse with her tail, and then they are among them.

They land heavily, in the middle of the wind storm. It isn't meant to cut, this particular spell, but Cherche's hair still stings her eyes as it whips about her face. She is dimly aware that the others didn't make it down: she is alone. Squinting against the wind, she grabs one of the tomahawks from her saddle bags and throws it as hard as she could. At this distance even the violent whirlwind can't do much to something so heavy, and the mage leader gasps as it sinks into his shoulder. The man next to him is thrown aside when Minerva grabs his horse's head in her mouth and wrenches it. Cherche feels Minerva's jaws crunch through bone. _Don't think, don't think—_

Another horse bolts and runs, taking its rider with it. Cherche is close enough to see the gritted teeth and the sweat on the leader's brow as he desperately tries to stop the spell from collapsing, chanting madly under his breath and ignoring the blood running from his shoulder.

Cherche draws another tomahawk. "Just _run!_ " she shouts furiously, but he will not go, and smiles as he lifts his arms and sets the spell loose, just as Cherche's axe splits his face.

The wind is a roar around her ears. When she urges Minerva up, she soars effortlessly, like she weighs half as much. Controlled only by one person, the spell must have gone awry; most of the boulders they have been using rolled harmlessly back into the canon, but a few closer to the cliff edge rolled right into a small cluster of the defenders, who'd retreated back from the cliff edge only to be caught—

Cherche turns away as the screams filled her ears. They surely shouldn't sound so loud from this high up. It feels like the most terrible sound she's ever head until the screams begin to peter out. Somehow, the silence rings even worsein her ears. Her head feels jumbled and her thoughts jitter and stumble over one another.

"Come, Minerva, we have more to do," Cherche says, with a calm she doesn't really feel, more for her own benefit than for Minerva's.

Higher still, they rise. The second half of their wyvern platoon is still making raids into the line of the cavalry. As Cherche tries to count how many are still flying, she sees a wyvern speared through the roof of its mouth; its rider is pulled out of the saddle and is lost from view. The body thrashes in its death throes.

They have only lost four, and only one from her squad. Considering only they have seen heavy fighting yet of the defenders, it is a good number. But those are five people who would not be here had Cherche not asked.

The front line of Walhart's troops is reluctant to advance into the narrow valley, where it would be a slaughter for them. They try to attack with long range spells, but Mayor Jean's lines are too far back to hit.

Cherche looks across the plains again, seeing the two catapults Walhart brought with him. _That will be his next step._

She waves to her deputy. "I have to convene with the Mayor!"

Her deputy gives her a salute and takes out his own red flag, leading the squad down into the ranks near the valley entrance. Cherche flies over the front ranks, back to their own lines. One of Walhart's mages turns to attack her squad – Cherche sees his arm raised, ready to guide the spell – but there is suddenly an arrow protruding from his chest, and he slumps over.

It was a trick Mayor Jean saw used in the last war, wind magic used to enhance an arrow's speed, increase the distance it can travel, and better penetrate armour. He spent days training the three wind mages under his command to replicate the effect. It certainly catches Walhart's cavalry off guard, the archers making targets of more soldiers before someone even notices the wyvern riders are not the only ones attacking them.

Cherche lands safely well behind their own lines. She doesn't leave the saddle, because if she does, Cherche knows she will simply drop to her knees and weep. So many small victories, and yet, they still face a crushing defeat…

It is Belle who approaches, stopping well out of reach of Minerva's teeth. She does not question the hitch in Cherche's breathing. "Lady Cherche, what is it you need?"

"Adalene," Cherche answers, wiping her face. The oldest of Major Jean's resistance – older even than himself – and their only fire mage. "I mean to destroy the siege weapons."

 _Focus, focus._

"What, going to blow them up?" Belle only grins viciously when Cherche nods. "I'll get her for you. Do your best to bring her back safely."

Cherche doesn't have the energy or the heart to _promise._ She merely nods again, and mutters soothing things in Minerva's ears, so she doesn't automatically assume that the newcomer is an enemy. Minerva sometimes struggles to tell friend from foe in the heat of battle.

Adalene's hair is nearly white and cropped short. She's missing three teeth at the front, from an old war wound. It might have looked comically lopsided if Adalene hadn't told Cherche of how she lost them, facing three heavily armoured knights by herself and casting three _bolganone_ spells simultaneously. She was a little off with the timing of the last one, Adalene had told Cherche with a rueful expression, and one of the knights was able to strike her with his shield before she boiled him alive in his armour.

"Lady Cherche." Adalene smiles. For all that she has been happily retired since the last war ended, she looks at peace on the battlefield in a way Cherche could never imagine. "Let's give 'em something to cry about."

Cherche's returned smile is a weak and feeble thing, but she hauls Adalene onto Minerva's back anyway.

"Poor dear," Adalene says. "I had hoped there would be peace for your generation, but the fates decided otherwise, I suppose."

"I have fought before," Cherche offers. She doesn't want Adalene to think her a rookie or incapable.

Adalene shakes her head. "Ah, but bandits and poachers are not the same thing as a war, are they?"

She can't find an appropriate reply. Minerva, ever impatient, flexes her wings pointedly.

"Alright, my love," Cherche murmurs, "take us aloft."

Together, they rise. Adalene lets out a gleeful laugh that wouldn't sound out of place from someone a quarter of her age.

Cherche breathes a sigh of relief when she meets with her squad again and sees they haven't suffered any more losses in her absence.

"Captain, I scouted the siege engines. It looks like one of them got stuck in a ditch, and has been abandoned. The other is defended by a squad of archers as well as infantry."

So, Walhart had expected them to come after the catapults. Wyverns were not as vulnerable to archers as pegasi due to their tough, scaly hides, but a good archer, given the opportunity, could take out a wyvern's rider easily enough. "With any luck we should not need to get close enough to present a vulnerable target."

The others nod, and follow her in close formation, tomahawks at the ready. They have only a limited supply, being unable to restock with the main army, and shouldn't really waste them – but it is only as a show of force, to allow Cherche and Adalene to get in close.

"How much of the explosives did you save?"

"Six bags," Cherche says.

Adalene only answers with a cackle.

A few moments more, and then the siege engine is ahead of them. Cherche gets a better look at the infantry – long spears and even a few wyrmslayer swords, specifically to defend the archers from their squad, she supposes. If they planned to land among them, the spears and sword would make quick work of their mounts.

But they aren't planning to land.

"Swoop and throw them now, my dear," Adalene calls. "No need to be too accurate. Mark three from when you throw the last…"

The resulting explosion is truly spectacular, practically propelling Minerva into the sky.

Adalene cackles again. "Did you see that? Did you see their faces?"

Cherche took care not to look too closely at the faces of the soldiers, but she can see them scattered below. Some stir to life, but others are punctured with splinters as big as Cherche's hand or simply blackened by the explosion.

She looks away, exhausted from the effort she has to expend _not thinking_ about certain things, the mounting horror rising in her throat at everything that must be done for them to accomplish so little. And yet, if Rosanne – if Valm – is to ever be free, they must do this again and again.

"Let me return you to Mayor Jean's command," Cherche says.

She cannot let grief cripple her now. There is still so much to be done.

* * *

Hours pass without Walhart making more than a few tentative forays into the mountain pass with his cavalry. He can't simply charge, as the defenders took care to set up fortifications in the valley before Walhart arrived. They are only basic wooden fences – some of them have already been kicked down by the horses – but it is enough to slow any attackers, funnelling them into being tempting targets for their archers. The majority of the peoples around here survive off what they can hunt, so arrows are one of the few things their army is not in short supply of. If Walhart means to waste their ammunition, he will have to be at this for a day, and he will lose more troops than they will.

Cherche eventually grounds both squads of wyverns, now only two thirds of what they were, to rest, sending only two up at a time as scouts in case Walhart has any more tricks up his sleeve. Walhart has the luxury of being able to rotate his cavalry troops out, but Major Jean has only Cherche's wyverns, and they cannot fly indefinitely.

It looks like Walhart is trying another charge into the valley. Cherche sighs, flexing a few of her muscles in case Mayor Jean signals for her aid. But it isn't Mayor Jean who interrupts her stretches, but her deputy.

"Captain!" he calls, landing heavily with the mount. "They dug up the other catapult, they're approaching fast!"

"What?!"

Her startled cry seems to rouse the rest of their platoon. There is a sudden flurry of movement, of people getting weapons readied and testing saddles to make sure they're secure.

Her deputy ducks his head. "I think they've purposefully been moving it forward during our changeovers, so we wouldn't think much of it… I'm sorry, Captain."

"Don't apologise." Cherche is finishing her own last minute checks whilst Minerva shakes herself and flexes her wings. "We'll deal with it before it becomes a problem."

Walhart's attack on the valley looks to be a serious one, too. He probably planned to distract them with the charge, and then withdraw his troops when the catapult was in place, when it was too late for them to do anything about it.

Cherche checks her supply of tomahawks. Half are gone. She keeps her sigh in check. Her comrades have probably noticed their own low supplies by now; there is no point in reminding them of how ill-equipped they are, when they could be fighting for hours more yet.

She sends a messenger off to Mayor Jean and then she and Minerva are away.

There won't be a quick fix this time with Adalene's fire magic. They'll have to destroy it up close.

Given the number of troops that Walhart has, the catapult is surprisingly ill-defended. But, Cherche supposes that he thought guarding it too closely would draw attention to it. They'll have to take care of this quickly, before there can be reinforcements. This charge into the valley is probably a distraction. If his wind mages could've directed the catapult's load instead… it would have crushed dozens of the defenders, at least, and destroyed the primitive fortifications they have built.

Cherche uses her red flag to signal their dive, grim-faced at her own carelessness. She should have expected Walhart to play some kind of trick like this, as dishonourable as he was. She should've warned the platoon to be on the lookout—

A current of wind like a wall slams into her and Minerva, sending them reeling. Cherche loses grasp of the reins and her axe, cursing. At least one of the riders wasn't careful enough when doing his pre-flight checks, because he falls from the saddle and hits the ground hard. Cherche has no idea if he even survived the fall, but before he can move, he is set upon by the archers, pelted with a dozen arrows— What is happening? The infantry were supposed to be lancers and archers—?

But Cherche sees the spears lying abandoned on the ground, the armoured soldiers withdrawing tomes instead, and understands in an instant. Most magical academies focus only on magical prowess, and mages are so valuable to an army, it's more important that they be able to move quickly around the battlefield than invest the time training their physical strength to withstand stronger armour. But Walhart has mage _cavalry_ and a surplus of soldiers besides, he doesn't _need_ to worry about giving his infantry mages armour they can barely move in.

The riderless wyvern lets out an angry screech and dives at the mages and archers. A few of the arrows lodge in her underbelly but she barely notices until a wind spell cuts the membrane of her left wing almost in half. She lands awkwardly in the middle of the infantry, making a keening cry but savaging anyone within reach.

Minerva dives after her, instinctively going to help her flight mate, whilst Cherche tries to find the reins to pull her up. "Minerva, no!"

The other members of her squad are using the distraction to go for the catapult itself, trying to break it with heavy tail swings or tearing at the ropes with the wyverns' jaws. Still beset by the grounded wyvern, the mages and archers are unable to properly respond.

Meanwhile, Cherche manages to grab the reins and pull Minerva up at the last moment. The cutting wind magic that would have destroyed her wing and grounded them instead makes a gash in her chest. Minerva whines and is slow to pull away, but they rise out of reach.

Cherche strokes the side of Minerva's neck. "I'm sorry, my love."

The other wyvern is being overwhelmed by the infantry now, despite the dozen that lie dead around her. With a wing useless, she was always beyond their help. As gently as she can, Cherche has Minerva circle, flinging her tomahawks to harry the soldiers with most of the other riders, whilst a handful dive in to tear at the catapult.

They lose three more wyverns in the space of only five minutes, but they manage to destroy the catapult before the infantry can rally. The remainders of her squad are able to retreat beyond the range of the archers and mages. Cherche sees the bodies below, wyverns and humans, ally and enemy, and closes her eyes for a moment.

She is so, _so_ tired.

"Captain!" her deputy shouts suddenly, high-pitched in alarm.

"What—?" Cherche begins to ask, but the words die on her lips as she looks away from their small corner of the battlefield.

Walhart's distinctive red armour and his standard bearer, entering the pass. Meanwhile, an entire platoon of mage cavalry is charging on their position.

"Shit," someone says. "Was this to get us out of the way?"

Cherche almost wants to laugh. Why not, why not this thing be futile as well, like everything else today. It was always going to be futile. And she thought she had come to terms with that, but—but to see all these people die, just to be an _annoyance_ to Walhart—

She swallows it down. Not now. _Not now._

The mage cavalry are preparing some kind of spell between them, like the group of wind mages Cherche had surprised earlier.

"Captain…" the deputy says.

"We have to go.". Cherche sees the look he gives her out of the corner of her eye. She can't acknowledge him or her own resolve will crumble. "We have to _try._ "

Her deputy nods, slowly, like a dawning realisation.

They lead the formation together until everyone begins to overtake Cherche. Minerva is slowed by her wound. Cherche waves them on, looking worriedly at the mage cavalry below. It seems that they expected the soldiers around the siege engine to buy more time for the spell, because her riders are mostly out of its path when it begins.

Cherche expected it to be a wind spell, but it isn't. Instead, bolts of lightning rise up from the ground, a bizarre storm. The air seems to crackle and seethe like a living thing, like an angry god. Blinding light flashes in Cherche's eyes as once, twice, one of the platoon is struck and drops out of the sky like a stone. Cherche's heart is in her throat but she can't hear anything over the deafening sound of thunder and the weight in her chest.

Another strike. This time, she can't help but recognise her deputy. Involuntarily, her mind supplies everything she knows about him: Fabrice, a younger sister, two children, likes to make puns. A good and loyal soldier. Too young, like all of them.

She tries to shake the thoughts away, but they persist. Fabrice enjoyed the theatre; comedies, mostly. He joked that he got his promotion because Duke Virion needed someone to accompany him to the comedic plays that Cherche refused to watch.

 _Should I have sent him with the refugees?_ But then someone else would have died, maybe several more under weaker leadership. What right would she have to simply pick and choose? Do Fabrice's wife and daughters matter more or less than Cosette's six younger brothers or Benedict's elderly parents?

She suddenly misses Virion very acutely. He, she is sure, would be able to bear this role much better. Cherche is best at simply following orders.

But there's no choice now but to keep urging Minerva forward. She can already see Walhart quite clearly. He is older than she thought, but as much a giant as she feared. When the leaders of the wyvern riders start to come upon him, he takes a javelin from one of his aides and throws it directly into the chest of one of the wyverns, which shrieks and starts to fall. _That shouldn't even be possible,_ Cherche thinks dizzily.

Walhart pushes harder, his red armour sweeping through the front ranks of the defenders like a tide. Minerva senses Cherche's urgency and increases her speed. Her sides work like bellows and Cherche can only touch her neck and hope she understands. _Soon, dearest, I will be able to make you well again._

But they're too late, anyway.

Cherche watches Mayor Jean rush forward to meet Walhart, drawing his sword. Maybe he means to buy the rest of his army some time. She can see how awkwardly he carried his shield on his prosthetic arm.

Walhart's first blow shatters his shield. His second blow shatters the arm itself. And his third blow removes Jean's head from his shoulders, clean and precise, like other men might pluck a daisy.

It happens so fast, and yet the moment of his death spreads like a wildfire through the army. Walhart's soldiers open gaps in the lines, driving through, again and again. The army is only a third of the size it used to be. Cherche sees a pillar of flame rise as high as two men in a circle ten feet across. _Adalene._ The mage leaves black and still figures in her wake, but it makes no difference. Walhart's advance is inexorable.

Mayor Jean's army always knew this was the end. They die in droves, on their feet, with a weapon in their hands. It's an honourable death, but the blood soaking the field is not an honour to witness, the bodies churned beneath the hooves of Walhart's cavalry are not a glory. This was a battle that could never have been won, and Cherche finally understands.

The thought that this might not have been the end, that this might have played out across all of Rosanne, blood choking the wildflowers and their own people killing the earth that feeds them. And still, that would not have won them _anything._

Virion's leaving saved everyone, more than they could know.

Even though it is their wish, for everyone to die here is…

Cherche passes over the faces of both armies alike. Now that they have broken the main force, Walhart's soldiers care little about her riders.

She sees a familiar face in the crowd. _Belle._ Ready to fight to the last like her father. Even their look of grim determination is the same.

Cherche cannot bear it, and before she even quite knows what she is doing, she twists Minerva's reins and down they go.

"Grab hold!" she shouts, as loud as she can.

Belle barely seems to hear her, but the man next to her sees Minerva's dive and drops his weapon to bodily lift Belle into the air. More out of instinct than genuine desire to be rescued, she grabs Cherche's arms and swings a leg half-over the saddle with wide eyes.

"Wait—" she says, but the man who rescued her is already gone.

Cherche sees that the rest of her squad – _the remains of it_ , her mind supplies – have had the same idea. Wyverns can carry heavy loads, even for their size. There are at least two to each rider, sometimes three, and to Cherche's delight, Adalene is one of those she recognises. Her head is bloodied and she isn't even conscious, held on with grim determination by another comrade, but Cherche thought for sure that she was dead.

The remnants of the battle fall away beneath them. Without the need for complicated manoeuvres, or to be within sight of the battle, the wyverns can rise and let the air currents ease their passing. The crisp mountain wind in Cherche's face – in Belle's, in Adalene's, in her riders, in the dozen or so other soldiers that they were able to rescue – feels like the only real victory of the day.

Their retreat will be a kind of battle of its own. Wyverns do not have indefinite endurance; they will have to land soon. Cherche will have to do whatever she can for Minerva's wound. Walhart might not know the land but he has men aplenty to comb the countryside, at least half of whom probably did no fighting at all in today's battle.

But a retreat can mean as much, or more, than a victory on the battlefield. Every life they saved today will mean more than the lives they took. Virion taught her that. They'll win this retreat because they have to, because Cherche will not lose these people now.

It's hard to begrudge a good man like Mayor Jean the death he wished. It's also hard not to regret that he could not see another way.

Virion will be back, and the battle will be remembered. It will be remembered as the first of the many battles of Rosanne's second war of independence. Maybe, Cherche thinks, Mayor Jean wanted to go that way because he _was_ tired of fighting. He wished to be remembered as part of Rosanne's spirit, not to fight as he had done in his youth, to lose good soldiers and kill still more and for every small victory to be fought for as bitterly as though it would end the war itself.

Cherche is tired merely from one battle, from a war which died almost as it started. How exhausted would one be, to have fought again and again, only to see it all come to nothing?

 _But it won't come to nothing,_ Cherche thinks.

She'll write their deaths into the history of Rosanne, as they deserve. Nations are forged in remembrance, and Cherche will bear witness, so Rosanne can be remembered as a free people, who sharpened their spears even when their heads were bowed in submission. Belle knows what Virion's real purpose was, and Adalene, if she doesn't know, wouldn't simply accept Walhart's reign now that they have lost. They, and the people like them, will keep the spirit of rebellion alive, even when it is unsafe to show it openly.

Rosanne is still the lands of mountains and wildflowers and the harsh cry of the wyvern, and it is still theirs.

* * *

 **A/N:** Written for a prompt on the Fire Emblem subreddit. This fic took me *so* god damn long to write, but I'm proud of how it turned out in the end. The battlefield scene, especially, was a long time in planning. It was hard trying to balance canon details with what tactics the armies might realistically use! Anyway, I'd love to know what you thought!


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